


fight off the light tonight (and just stay with me)

by francescaberlin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Gen, I'm sorry but also not, also Niall comforts Harry with a pint or six because why not narry, and Liam making him feel a lot better!!, and plenty of cliches, but v brief narry so do not worry, even briefer mention of Niall, so if you love lilo this one's for you, this is really just Louis being sad over closeting, very brief mention of Larry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5155565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/francescaberlin/pseuds/francescaberlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Louis cries and Liam comforts him, featuring loads of cuddles and maybe a lullaby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fight off the light tonight (and just stay with me)

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be written ages ago for my dearest friend Nurin, who got me into this whole mess into the first place, but never materialised because writer's block is a bitch. So here it is, finally, when we are both almost grey-haired and stooping. It was originally meant as a drabble, but has metamorphosed into the monster that follows. 
> 
> I apologise for any errors or anything of the sort because I wrote this in two hours ish. Also, I do not own, in any way, shape or form, One Direction, because if I did, I would not be here right now.
> 
> Enjoy :-)

Louis has always loved London, loved the big city feel of it all, the bright lights of the skyscrapers towering proudly over the plebeians on the streets below, loved the pace of the city (not achingly slow but not dizzyingly fast either), loved the people that inhabited its streets and the way everyone shared the same one-minded dedication to complaining about everything they could. Louis has always loved London, always loved playing there, whether it was at the Wembley or the O2, loved that both venues were big enough that when everyone in the arena held up their cellphones, glow-sticks, torchlights, he felt something like a galaxy, where he was smack in the middle of it all with his four most favourite people in his world. If you asked him, the London shows would always be the best shows, the favourite shows for him, even though he isn’t from London, because they have always felt the most like home.

They’re all his best shows, his favourite shows, the London ones — well, except for this one.

&&&

Louis is fuming, but as always, he doesn’t say anything, keeps silent instead. He’s always fuming, always furious whenever they meet with management, but not like this. No, never like this.

“We’ve done research, you know,” Steven, their head publicist, sniffs. “We simply can’t afford this now, you’ll have to wait a bit longer, boys, I’m sorry.” His mouth twists then, into what Louis thinks is meant to be an apologetic smile, but instead ends up an unfeeling sneer.

Louis also thinks _fuck your research,_ remembering the number of nights him and Harry have spent curled up in bed like vines, mobiles in hand, scrolling through tumblr and reading the silly things their shippers say and smiling inside and outside at the amount of support that flows from their fans like an endless river. Louis also thinks _how much longer can we do this?_ , remembering the number of meetings they’ve had where Steven unapologetically tells them they’ll have to wait just a bit longer, as if they haven’t been waiting five years already.

But he feels Harry’s hand link with his then, and he wills the frustration churning in the pit of his belly to seep away with every stroke of Harry’s thumb over his knuckle. _This is us, this is me and Harry,_ Louis reminds himself, _and nothing will change this_. It has always been HarryandLouis, a single entity that always looked wrong somehow whenever they were apart. It has always been Harry’s careful optimism balancing out Louis’s persistent realism (pessimism, more like, Harry thinks), has always been Louis that anchors Harry when he gets too distracted, has always been Harry that guides Louis home whenever he begins to feel lost and shaken under the glare of the spotlight. It’s always been HarryandLouis, and no money-minded jerk will ever change that. “I love you,” Harry whispers in the voice he reserves to take Louis off the edge, the voice that soothes and moves him at the same time.

Louis shifts his weakening glare on Steven to rest his eyes on Harry’s, deep-sea blue to bright, forest green. “I know,” he says simply, and thinks that they’ll get through this because they have to.

“We’ll discuss this at our next meeting,” Steven negotiates then, and Louis is careful not to get his hopes up. That was what he said the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. It seems ages before management will finally agree on their rebranding strategy, before management will finally set them free. Even Harry, the perpetual optimist, has learnt that by now. There’s no point, they both know, and they leave the meeting feeling more helpless than ever, sinking into each other like a shipwreck sinks into the seabed.  
&&&

It should have been a good show, Louis thinks, when they’re backstage after the encore, the adrenaline pumping in his veins amplifying his anger. It should have been a good show, but it wasn’t.

In all fairness, Louis didn’t have the highest expectations for their last night at the O2. They were all on edge from the meeting, and Louis, out of the four, always took things the most deeply, always took the decisions management made into him and mulled over them any chance he got, turning the stone over and over, looking for cracks, until the stone turned into dust. But he figured that it was London, after all, and his love for the city should be enough to energise him as he stumbled around in a cloud of anger, and so the show would turn out just fine.

And it was just fine: the band played flawlessly, Harry entertaining the crowd with his cheeky antics without fail, Niall cracking jokes and making everyone laugh, and Liam going around talking to fans like they were family (which, in the boys’ eyes, they were). Throughout the show the boys glanced continually over to Louis, who, ever the actor, kept up the act well enough to avoid the fans noticing he was off, but they knew him better, much better. It was just fine, until Louis spotted a sign halfway through 18 and almost choked on his solo.

The funny thing was that the sign was massive — like, humongous, gigantic, massive. It clearly wasn’t the work of just one person, and Louis wondered how he didn’t notice it until their second set. The words were in bold, black lettering, sharply contrasting its rainbow background, and read, _IT’S NOT WRONG IF HE MAKES YOU STRONG_ , and felt like a punch to a gut. Was management fucking stupid, were they all dropped on their heads as babies or simply blind to the support that they received? They could more than afford it, and every time Louis saw a shipper his conviction grew. HarryandLouis was suffering at the hands of greedy bastards, when they were openly encouraged to flourish by the people that loved them most. It was the price that they paid for fame, but it pissed Louis the fuck off. He wanted to be with Harry in the way Harry deserved, damn it, and could management really not fucking see? There were thousands, maybe millions, of people trying to wrench the door open for them, but every time it moved even a quarter of an inch, management would bolt it shut over again. It was just — frustrating and hopeless and angering and irritating and sad and upsetting and a countless other feelings Louis had no words for. It was everything and nothing at once, and he hated it.

He could feel the swell of anger in his gut, the emotion strong enough to render a physical manifestation, festering like parasites, the rage starting to trickle into his bloodstream. On the mic, his knuckles were stretched to a pale, deathly white, and he managed a weak smile for the girls that held the sign before opening his mouth to sing his favourite line in the entire album.

Of course, with the fury that he felt in every cell, it didn’t come out quite right. “ _I have loved you since we were 18, long before we both thought the same thing_ ,” he sang, throat tight with frustration. He felt like his lungs were going to burst with the sheer force of emotion, and prayed that management was listening, that the sharp blade of his emotions would cut them where it hurt, prayed that they would feel just an ounce of what he did so they would understand.

Harry continued, the song segueing flawlessly into his next line, and when Harry made the brief, split-second eye contact that he and Louis were confined to nowadays, the longing in his eyes was clear. _Are you all right?_ his eyes pleaded, and looking away, Louis tilted his head to the side a fraction. _No_ , he thought helplessly, _and I don’t know how to be._

&&&

They stumble into the hotel like a couple of drunkards, all inebriated for different reasons, all at different times. Harry takes Niall up on his offer to drink his sorrows away, whereas Louis — Louis just wants to sleep, and turns down their invite with a kiss to Harry and a threat to Niall to take good care of his boy. And Liam’s a total homebody, so there’s that.

Liam attempts to make small talk in the lift which Louis is grateful for, doesn’t want the silence in the metal box because he knows he’ll start to fall in too deep. He babbles on about the show they had that night and the things his family has been doing lately, still hyper from the show but more mellow than he usually is. Even their bodyguards don’t crack crude jokes like they usually do, and Louis thinks he doesn’t give them enough credit.

When they get to their floor, Louis briskly walks out of the lift and straight to his room, with Liam saying a quick, hurried goodbye to the guards who make a left where Louis makes a right. By the time Liam’s caught up to him, Louis is sliding his card into the reader — or at least trying to.

“Here,” Liam whispered. “Let me help.” He pries the slip of plastic from Louis’s hands which are beginning to tremble, and opens the door in one swift motion. Stepping aside, he lets Louis in first, and waits for him to make the next move, doesn’t want to stay if he wants to be let well alone, doesn’t want to leave if he wants company.

“Thank you,” Louis says, which is, really, the first sign that anything is truly wrong. His voice is quiet and small, and his eyes won’t meet Liam’s.

“Any time, mate,” Liam assures him, and waits for him to speak again. When he doesn’t, Liam sighs. “Louis, look at me.” And, well, he does, and it’s absolutely heartbreaking.

Liam can count the number of times he’s seen this look: on their first tour when Louis couldn’t cope with missing home even as he made a new one, and when they had their first meeting about HarryandLouis closeting. Every time he sees it, it seems to hit him anew with the force of Louis’s sadness, always more raw emotion than he remembers. “Oh, Lou,” he sighs, grabbing his hand and closing the door.

Louis lets Liam gather him into his arms, feeling smaller than usual. Sadness does that to a person, he supposes. “It’ll be O.K.,” Liam promises, like he knows. But he doesn’t.

Louis breaks away from his arms then, and looks Liam steady in the eye. He can feel his bottom lip trembling, like a tree branch in a tornado wind. “And you know this, how? We’ve been doing this for almost five years, Liam, there’s no end in sight. There never is, and they lie and they lie and they lie but every night I go out there on stage and I see the truth and I’m so angry and frustrated and sad and hopeless and Harry deserves so much more than this and I don’t know how to get us out of this mess,” he rushes out, words slurring together, slumping against the Liam’s chest, which is warm and firm and smells like Liam, who has always been constant and strong and _there_.

Somehow they end up on the bed, Liam against the headboard, and Louis curled up, tiny, against his side, crying pitifully (Liam thinks he sounds a bit like a lost kitten, and every time the thought pops up he feels his heart shatter all over again), soaking the side of his flannel with tears. “I don’t know what to do,” Liam says quietly, hesitantly. “Just hold me,” Louis replies. “That I can do,” Liam agrees, and so he does.

Louis has never known how to feel about being the smallest of the boys, despite being the oldest, but right now, he loves it. He loves that the boys are bigger than him and drape over him when they cuddle like safety blankets — always wanted one and now he’s got four. Now he feels even smaller than usual, stricken and shrinking with the fear that they will stay closeted forever. His fear is crippling him, but with Liam’s arms around him, he can breathe. He’s safe, for now, at least, away from the pressure of Harry’s concern, from the eagle-eyed gaze of management, from the shackles of fame. He’s got Liam, who smells like fresh laundry and cologne and _Liam_ , and he’s safe.

“Want me to get Harry?” he says finally, but Louis shakes his head firmly. He can’t deal with Harry right now, can’t look him in the eye, can’t give him what he deserves, doesn’t know what to say. He loves Harry, he does, more than anything in the world, but if he has to look Harry in the eyes and see the pain and frustration and sadness and hurt that lies there, he might just die.

Time passes strangely then — Louis has a vague sense that it’s late, but the sky never changes in the pitch blackness so he can’t tell whether it’s eleven, two, or five. Neither of them are remotely sleepy — one wide awake with fear, the other with worry. Louis can feel Liam’s strong, rough hands combing through his hair, fiddling with his fringe, can feel his lips pressing to the top of his head every now and then to reassure him that even if things aren’t completely O.K., he’s not alone.

Liam does a lot of things to make him feel better, tries different tactics, switching from one method to another even when he’s barely finished attempting the first. It frustrates Louis, because he knows nothing will truly dull the ache in his heart until they’re out, but it’s just so Liam of him to do that, it makes him smile weakly at Liam, who smiles right back, if albeit gingerly. Louis’s favourite was when Liam sang him a lullaby, simple but unfamiliar, and lulled into peace by Liam’s smooth baritone, he almost fell asleep until he remembered why Liam was singing him a lullaby in the first place.

Eventually Liam gives up, and it’s silent for a long, indeterminable period of time before he speaks. “It’ll get better, you know?” he says quietly, slowly, like he’s not quite sure of his words even as he says them. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, and I know it’s tough. It’s not something I can understand so I won’t even try, but I know that much. And I know that you love Harry with every ounce of your being and he loves you just as much, if not more, and the two of you have been doing this for so long, I can’t even imagine what it’s like. But I’ve watched the two of you go through this, and every time you’re knocked down, you help each other up and you help each other heal. There’s nothing, I don't think, the two of you can’t overcome.” His voice is still low, but there’s an unmistakeable, undeniable undertone of confidence in it. “You’ve held on for so long, you can’t give up now. Remember why you’ve held on for so long, remember Harry, yeah? You’ve both been dealt a shit hand of cards, maybe, but he’s still up to play for you yet, and you’ve got Niall and me and Zayn, too, on your side, and we’ll get through this,” Liam intones. “Together.”

“Liam,” Louis sighs. “ _Liam_.” Liam is a demon whisperer, he thinks, feeling lighter than he was before, silencing all his fears and quelling his anxieties with just his words.

“What?”

“I love you,” Louis says, and he means it. “Thank you, I needed to hear that.”

Liam presses his lips to Louis’s forehead then. “I’ll tell you that anytime.”

Instead of replying, Louis curls further into Liam’s side, pressing himself against his ribs, until he can feel Liam’s breath, warm on his hair. He wills himself not to think, wills himself to let the sheer exhaustion take over his body, and suddenly he’s aching all over.

“What would I do without you?” Louis says minutes later, voice thick with sleep.

“Let’s hope it never comes to that,” Liam replies sincerely, feels Louis smile into his side, and thinks, _we’re all going to be O.K._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and please don't forget to comment/kudo if you actually did like it :-) (as self-indulgent and badly written as it was). 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at harriedout.tumblr.com. X


End file.
